Safe and Sound
by RequiemForTheWolves
Summary: It was a whisper, more of a breath than a voice that came from my bedroom window. I knew I must have dozed off again when I turned to see a lean figure taking up space in my room, all dark curls and alabaster skin and piercing eyes of ice that could freeze a man down to his very core.


So, I based this off of a YouTube video that you guys can find here:

watch?v=o6D_f8NI4_s

I woke up gasping, heart pounding in my chest as a thin sheen of sweat began to coat my skin. For a few moments I had to blink, to observe, and realize that what I was staring up at was not a lone figure perched on a rooftop, but instead the rotating ceiling fan that blew blessed cool air down on my over heated body. Swallowing down the lump that had formed in my throat was tricky, but I somehow managed as I pulled damp sheets up from where they were tangled about my legs.

Another nightmare then. They had become frequent as of late, even more so than when everything had begun not even a year ago. I blamed it on stress, though my therapist tried to insist it was some subconscious part of my brain reacting to the anniversary that was fast approaching. I wasn't that kind of person though, my years in the army had shown me that. However, the stress of being consistently hunted after would be enough to bring the dreaded memories back, of being number one on the list of so many of Moriarty's hit men.

I let my eyes slip closed again, exhaustion washing over me in waves as I practically begged sleep to drag me under again, I had been deprived of so much of it as of late. I threw an arm over my eyes, burying them in my elbow despite the fact that there was no one around to see the gatherings of salt water that made their home in the corners there. For a while I simply concentrated on my breathing, trying to slow it down in attempt to calm myself, as this dream was never as easily shaken off as any of my others.

"_John_."

It was a whisper, more of a breath than a voice that came from my bedroom window. I knew I must have dozed off again when I turned to see a lean figure taking up space in my room, all dark curls and alabaster skin and piercing eyes of ice that could freeze a man down to his very core. It hurt to look at him again, it always hurt when I saw the all consuming presents of Sherlock Holmes in any of my dreams, though I had to remind myself that if I was going to see him at least this dream seemed to be a good one so far, void of high drops and bone crushing pavements.

For a few moments all I could do was stare at the man standing only a few feet away, drinking in the sight of him as best as I could. He looked tired, eyes not glimmering as much as I remembered, and posture not quite so proud. He still held an air of importance about him though, despite the fact that his signature coat was missing from his apparel, and his clothes seemed more disheveled than usual. Still, despite minor alterations he was a sight sorely missed.

A small smile pulled at the edges of my lips, the motion so foreign to me now that that was all I could really manage. "What are you still doing over there? Come here." I spoke in a soft tone to my late lover, extending an arm off of the bed in attempt to reach for the other's.

It didn't take much convincing, and soon chilled fingertips met with my own. I frowned a bit at the thick fabric deterring me from touching the other's skin, and quickly pulled the glove off and let it drop to the floor. _This_, this was what I had wanted, the skin on skin contact of the musician's fingers sliding in between my own, locking in place there with a grip that spoke of holding something so fragile and dear, and yet gripping it with no intention of letting go, the oxymoron coming together so beautifully at once in something as simple as holding hands. _This_ was part of what made Sherlock Sherlock, so important and so forever irreplaceable.

Despite my happiness the taller man's eyes were worried, and he looked almost as is he were restraining himself, reeling part of himself in. "John I- I-"

"I've missed you." I spoke then for the both of us, not minding the man's sudden inability with words. "I think this is the best dream I've had in a long time."

Black brows pulled together for a moment with something that looked like pain, but that shouldn't be right. This was a happy dream, Sherlock shouldn't feel pain here. It was soon erased though, smoothed back into the almost poker face that only let concern slip through. "Yes, well, I've come to tell you that you're safe now. There's no need to worry anymore. About anything. I've taken care of it all."

"What do you mean?"

A slender thumb stroked the top of my own, comforting and affectionate. "All of the people that wanted to hurt you, I've taken care of them all. You don't have to worry about them ever again. No one can hurt you now."

My small smile this time was grim, because I wanted to believe him, really I did, but how could I when I knew how my every day started and ended, how much pain and loneliness was there despite everyone's best efforts. "You're wrong you know."

"What do you mean?" The tendons in the hand clutched in mine tensed, though I did my best to calm him by running my thumb up and down the side of his forefinger.

"You hurt me. Every day." The panicked man attempted to draw back his hand then, crystallized orbs shining with worry and fear. I refused to let him go, to make him hear what I had to say, and despairing at the thought of losing him again so suddenly. "Every day you're not here with me hurts. There's a pain in my chest and I can't _breathe_. It should be so simple to breathe, shouldn't it? Everyone does it, everyday, without thinking. But for me, it takes effort. It's _hard_, Sherlock. God, I miss you so much."

I knew there were definite tears forming in the corners of my eyes as I poured my heart out to the imagined form of a man I once loved, and he in turn looked wounded, like someone was physically driving a knife through that ice cold heart of his.

"_John_." It was nearly a sob, nearly.

The second glove came off by ways of Sherlock's teeth, it dropping to the floor with its companion as the dead man's hand came to cradle the side of my face, wiping away the tears that were there. Our faces were closer now, Sherlock bending over me as to stare directly into my eyes, though not close enough that our deepened breaths were yet able to mingle.

"Can I promise you something?" I expected him to continue after this question, but he hesitated for once, actually seeking my approval before continuing. I swallowed the lump quickly forming in my throat and gave a small nod. "I'll come home to you soon. I'm nearly finished, so _god damn_ close to being finished. And as soon as I'm done, I'll come home to you. And then we'll be safe and sound, _together_."

I wanted to give a confirmation in return, assure him that _yes, that sounds lovely. I don't know how you'll pull it off, but knowing you I'm sure you will. _Fatigue was becoming a heavy weight on my chest though, closing off my throat so that no words came out. It seemed a bit ridiculous, to be tired in a dream, but my heavying lids spoke differently, and demanded to be shut.

A kiss was placed on my forehead, sealing the promise.

"Safe and sound John, together." Came the whisper from above me, and though I wanted to say _wait, what are you doing_; because those words sounded like a good-bye, my lips were too heavy, my muscles too tired. My conscientiousness slipped away before Sherlock's hands were removed from my face.

_And how was your visit to the good doctor? - MH_

**Get the paperwork ready. I'm coming home. - SH**

_That bad? - MH_

**Let's just say I have a promise to keep. - SH**


End file.
